


Warden's Retreat

by anneapocalypse



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair and Tabris have a complicated relationship, Bathing/Washing, Cunnilingus, F/M, Loghain was conscripted, Post-Canon, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Zevran being saucy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27864149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: After the festivities in Denerim, the Warden finally gets some alone time with Zevran at Soldier's Peak--though not without a moment of regret.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	Warden's Retreat

**Author's Note:**

> It is December, and so this is 100% self-indulgence, as is my custom.
> 
> This fic briefly depicts Tabris and Alistair yelling rather unkind things at each other. There is a single mention of rape, not elaborated upon.
> 
> This is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes and is not intended to be instructional with regard to sex, relationships, bathing habits, arranged marriages, the care of historical artifacts, or anything else.

The stone walls of Soldier's Peak are a welcome respite to Ilana Tabris after days on end of celebration in Denerim. She is not sure she could bear another day of being paraded through the streets, and before they set out on the road west, she is bone-tired in more than body. Too exhausted even to exchange banter with Zevran, who still travels faithfully at her side. Maker bless the man, he's done more to make her smile in these last few days than all the feasting and admiration in the world.

The keep is bustling when they arrive. The Drydens have done some fine work with the place, clearing out rubble and scrubbing the arcane sigils from the stone floors and putting skeletal remains to the pyre, lest they rise once again to re-enact battles long-forgotten. Already the fortress bears few signs of the magical horrors that stalked its halls just months ago.

Word must have travelled ahead of her from Denerim, because Levi and Mikhael greet her as "Warden-Commander" when she arrives. She almost corrects them. It's still strange to have any kind of title, to have humans greet her with respect.

The Drydens have prepared a room for her on the upper floor, yet more steps to climb, but Ilana lets out a long sigh of relief as soon as the heavy wooden door closes behind them, and the footsteps recede. It's a nice room. The bed is wide and well-dressed, the room well-warmed by a crackling fire in the hearth, and furnished with a stone tub and a few sturdy wooden chairs.

Strong arms wrap around her from behind, and Ilana sighs quietly, wanting to collapse into them. Wanting to sink into those arms and never emerge to the wider world again.

"A bath before bed, perhaps?" Zevran inquires.

No words have ever sounded sweeter, but Ilana shakes her head. "Don't put upon the staff at this hour."

Zevran kisses her cheek. "Perish the thought, my sweet! You think your strapping companion cannot carry water up some stairs?"

"So many stairs," Ilana groans.

But Zev is already moving away from her to examine the bath. "Ah, no need!" The stone tub is inlaid with a dweomer rune that, when activated by touch, causes the tub to magically fill with crystal clear and perfectly hot water. She's seen these before, mostly in the Diamond Quarter in Orzammar where runic magic is commonplace. Less common on the surface, but some nobles have them. And evidently, the Grey Wardens in times past, when the Order commanded power and respect in Ferelden.

Ilana pokes him playfully in the arm. "And here I was looking forward to seeing you show off."

Zevran strikes a pose. "My darling, if you wish to see me perform feats of strength for your pleasure, you need only ask. Perhaps with less clothing on?"

 _"Definitely_ with less clothing on."

Zevran strips off his breastplate with cheerful efficiency, and his tunic with a flourish. "Your wish is my command."

The tub is extravagantly large. Ilana is used to bathing with a rag and bucket—or, more recently, a splash in a cold stream when they were lucky enough to find one running near camp. Eamon's estate in Denerim gave her the first real bath she'd had in months, and also the fanciest one she'd ever had in her life. _Clean towels._ Soaps that smelled like flowers she'd never heard of. Oils and salts and other things that evidently you were supposed to put into a bath, in cut-glass bottles with words Ilana could not pronounce.

Already, Denerim feels like a lifetime ago.

Zevran rummages in his pack and produces a small glass vial. A heady floral scent rises with the steam as he tips a few drops into the bath. Ilana couldn't name the scent, but she knows its origins.

"You visited Liselle before we left Denerim," she guesses.

Zevran grins. "Of course, my wildflower. Only the best for you." He gestures. "Come here."

Ilana needs no further coaxing to undress, laying aside the pieces of her treasured elven armor set with care: breastplate and greaves, the leather skirting that some ancient magic has kept strong and supple through the centuries, her boots, and the tall pointed helmet that makes human lords regard her with some unease. It comes in handy, keeping them a little off-balance. Reminding them that elves are capable of more than scouring their sculleries and picking their pockets.

Not that she isn't also quite good at the latter.

Zevran himself strips quickly to his smallclothes and comes to help remove hers. Ilana sighs happily at his touch, hands warmed by the steam from the bath.

He kisses her when they're both naked, a long, lingering kiss. Long enough for Ilana to get thinking about other things those hands and lips can do, before Zevran's mouth breaks from hers. "Your bath awaits your indescribable loveliness, my dear."

Ilana snickers. Zevran's flattery is regularly over the top, and at the moment she is sweaty and grimy from their journey, and must smell anything but lovely. Then again, Zevran's as caked in road dust as she is, and his lean muscled body inked with sleek black curves is still gorgeous to behold. And to touch. "I hope you're joining me, my strapping companion."

Zevran grins. "Ah, but how could I resist such an offer? Very well, your wiles have succeeded, and now you must have your way with me."

"I _am_ going to hold you to that later."

"My darling, I would be disappointed if you didn't."

She grins and climbs in, and Zevran follows, settling behind her and putting his hands to her shoulders, beginning to massage out the tension of days and weeks and months. Ilana relaxes into his touch as the heat of the water relaxes her muscles, and his hands move down her back, and then back up.

He works his fingers into her hair, messaging her scalp, and Ilana lets out a soft sigh of pleasure. Zevran pauses to gently tug out the bits of heavy thread she uses to bind her dark hair in a row of little tails all the way around, the same way her mother used to wear hers. At least two had already come loose on the road. He rubs the nape of her neck with his thumbs, scratches her scalp lightly with his fingernails, and combs his fingers lightly through her hair.

Ilana leans back to dip her hair under the water. The heat feels good on her scalp.

She swaps positions with Zev then and he lets her take his hair down, undoing the narrow braids that run to his temples. His hair is pale gold and silky, as sun-touched as his golden brown skin, and kinked in tight little waves where the braids were. It's grown out a bit in the months since she met him. Ilana had hers cut in Denerim for the coronation, neatly to just below her chin; Zevran's has gone untrimmed and now easily brushes his shoulders. She combs out his hair with her fingers and thinks of the months together that length represents, everything that has grown between them since that day she could have put a dagger in his heart, and didn't.

Thinking of it, she puts a hand on his chest instinctively and pulls him back against her breast. Zev's hand covers hers, and beneath her palm she feels the beating of his heart.

How lucky she is to have him.

 _A rogue makes her own luck_. Mother told her that, more than once, while teaching her to wield dual blades in secret. Mother gave her the luck that made her a Warden, with every Alienage law she broke to make sure Ilana could provide for and defend herself. Maybe the Maker sent Zevran to Loghain from the Crows; Ilana made good on that when she let him live, brought him with her. One more thing Alistair disapproved of.

(Was it just that, or something else, when she caught him glaring daggers at her the morning after she bedded the assassin? Well. Probably they made more noise than they meant to, and a tent doesn't do a whole lot for that. Probably better not to read anything more than annoyance into the looks Alistair gave her, that and many mornings after. Probably best not to think about it too much.)

Zevran dunks his head under the water, and then sweeps her into a kiss. It's heaven, the steaming fragrant water and Zevran's warm naked body in her arms and his soft, sensual mouth.

And no obligations looming over her, at least not in the immediate future.

Ilana thinks about taking him right here in the bath. It's doubtful he'd object. She tucks a wet lock of his hair behind his ear and Zev cups her cheek in one hand. He can be so tender, when he wants to be. She loves the grinning, bantering, flirty Zevran he is around nearly everyone. She loves just as much the passionate lover, the gentle companion, all the facets of him that come out when they're alone and he is truly at ease.

"Relax, my dear," Zevran murmurs as if on cue. "Let me take care of you."

Ilana is only too happy to turn herself over to his deft hands, and she can't help but sigh when Zev drags the wet cloth over her shoulders. The water is just right, hot enough to sooth aches and relax tired muscles without scalding,. She lets Zevran bathe her with careful hands, washing her skin with the scent of Orlesian blooms. Pressing up against her back, he squeezes the cloth over her breasts to let the warm water run over her skin. Wrapped in his arms, Ilana feels her breath quicken, and when his embrace tightens she feels him half-hard against her back.

Two things he's good at, Zevran likes to say, killing and lovemaking. "Let's hope you're better at the second one," Ilana teased him mercilessly the first time she took him to bed. He took her teasing well; it was one of the things she liked so much about him. Not like Alistair, who had a tendency to dish out more than he could take.

The thought of Alistair still makes her heart twist a little. He barely spoke to her at the coronation, and what remarks he did make were cutting. Ilana supposes he'll be angry at her for some time, maybe forever.

But he's the King of Ferelden, and Anora's problem now.

They fought bitterly at Eamon's estate after the Landsmeet. Like cats and dogs. Scared the servants away from the entire wing, or so she was told.

"Whatever your reasons, he deserved to _die,"_ Alistair raged at her, a fire in his eyes the likes of which she had never seen. "And you made him _one of us!"_

"And that right there is your problem," Ilana snapped back. "You think the Wardens are _family._ Well, we're not. We're an order bound by _duty_ —to stop a Blight at _any_ cost. I remember that even if you—"

"Right, so now my _duty_ is to marry a woman whose father murdered the man who was like a father to me, while _you_ —"

"Oh, come off it, Alistair! You had known Duncan, what, six months? Arl Eamon raised you for ten years! No, I know your childhood wasn't perfect! You think mine was? You think—"

"This isn't _about—"_

"—life in the Alienage was just grand, where any human, noble or common, could rob or murder or rape us and no one, not your King or your Arl or your Grand fucking Cleric, would care?"

Alistair went silent at that, his jaw hanging, but she couldn't stop, couldn't quell the anger that flared up in her. "I'm _so sorry_ you didn't have the perfect family you always wanted but the Wardens are not a _replacement_ for that. Andraste's ass, Alistair. There are worse things than being _King._ "

"Wow," Alistair cut her off at last, his eyes dark with anger. "You had a lot to say, didn't you?"

"Go," Ilana said coldly. "Before I decide to say more."

She probably shouldn't have said some of those things. A lot of those things.

But what's done and said is said and done.

She advised Loghain to make himself scarce in Denerim for a time, and he's heeded that advice. Had things gone according to plan, he wouldn't be alive, and Ilana can't say she'd shed any tears for the man, but now, thanks to Morrigan… well. The order needs rebuilding, and he's a start.

Maybe one day, Alistair will forgive her—for giving him the throne, with a smart and beautiful wife to boot, for saving him from exile or execution, both of which anyone with half a brain for politics could see was a looming possibility. For hedging her bets that they'd have enough Wardens left at the end to put a blade through the Archdemon's skull. For putting her duty as a Grey Warden above sentiment, above her own feelings—

While she's been carrying out that duty, rallying their armies and facing the Archdemon and fielding human lords with daggers behind their smiles—already watching, waiting for her to fail, or for someone else to put a knife in her back—in the midst of all that, it's been easy to tell herself Alistair was being a child. That this is why _she_ is the Warden-Commander and he isn't. Because she is willing to do what is necessary.

Only now, with Zevran's adoring hands on her, does that pang of guilt strike at her like a hidden blade.

She only narrowly escaped an arranged marriage herself, and then she pushed Alistair into one, while she ran away with the man she loved.

"Ilana," Zevran says softly, and Ilana realizes she's been staring off into nothing.

"Zev."

"Something troubles you, my sweet?"

She shivers, the wet cooling on her skin.

"No," she says, turning around to straddle his thighs, and kissing him hard. "Nothing."

Zevran's mouth meets hers, warm and eager, and when she touches him under the water, he's already hard as stone.

They towel off carelessly, dropping wet towels on the floor and stepping eagerly back into each other's embrace. Kissing hungrily now, breathlessly, skin against skin warmed by the fire, and their hands all over each other.

"Tell me what you desire," Zevran murmurs against her mouth. "Anything."

Ilana takes him by the hand and practically drags him to the bed. He comes willingly, eyes bright with an eagerness to match her own. She sits on the edge of the bed, Zev sinks to his knees, and Ilana lies back, hooking one leg over his bare shoulder as his clever tongue goes to work between her legs. Soft and teasing, then firmer, practiced strokes that have her moaning already, threading her fingers through his damp hair as she arches against his mouth. So nice to do this in with a roof over their heads, and not spread out on a lumpy bedroll over hard ground.

Eamon's estate was the first time she and Zev fucked in a real bed. They took full advantage of it then, too—the luxury of soft mattress and clean sheets, and privacy of closed doors and stone walls, the freedom to find out just how loud they could make each other.

She doesn't hold back now, either, moaning Zevran's name with abandon.

It's easy to just lie back and enjoy it, but Ilana loves to watch him, too, golden head bowed between her thighs and eyes half-closed with concentration. She can see from the slow movement of one arm that he's quietly touching himself as he eats her out, and just the thought of it makes her want more.

"Don't come," Ilana orders, breathless. "Not yet."

Zevran's laughter is hot on her skin, and his hand stills. "Ah, so cruel! As you command, my love. How do you want me?"

Ilana rolls upright, hot and tingling with arousal, and commands, "Up here."

Zevran climbs onto the bed and she kisses the taste of herself from his mouth before putting her back to him, leaning against his chest and moving his hand between her thighs. He needs little guidance, sliding two finger inside her while his other hand finds her breasts. Hot kisses trail down her neck as his fingers thrust, stretch, and curl—gentle, and then faster, rougher, until she's gasping.

"Zev, _yes—"_

His cock is hard against her lower back and she can feel the subtle flex of his hips against her, feel the _want_ in his breath against her neck, and Ilana doesn't feel like being patient.

She squeezes his thigh. "I want you inside me."

Zevran lets out a heady laugh, smoothly withdrawing his fingers. "I am yours."

Ilana rises on her knees, leans forward to steady herself against the headboard. Zevran's hands steady her hips, and the head of his cock nudges against her entrance. Ilana sinks back on him and Zev needs no further coaxing to push all the way inside her, breathing a long sigh of pleasure as his hips press flush against her ass.

 _"Ah,_ yes," Ilana murmurs.

"Yes," Zevran echoes, a smug delight in his voice, "Ah, you are insatiable. It is all I can do to keep up with your appetites, you know."

"Yes, well," Ilana says with airy pleasure, pushing back against him, savoring him full and thick inside her, "I'm sure you'll manage, somehow."

Zevran has one hand on the wall beside hers, holding himself steady, while the other cups her breast, teasing a nipple. His lips travel the outer length of her ear, his tongue caressing the tip, making her shiver. "I shall find it within myself to fulfill your desires, my exacting darling."

"Then you better not hold back on me."

Zevran's laughter is hot on her ear. "Work, work, work," he purrs, and his wet fingers find her clit before he starts to thrust in earnest.

The deft touch of his hand has Ilana moaning again, grinding back against Zevran and urging him on faster, harder, but it's even better when Zev really gives in, fucking her with fervent abandon. He folds himself over her back, panting her name. They rock the sturdy wood bedframe until it knocks against the stone wall and Ilana gasps, _"Yes_ , Zev, _Maker_ , I'm so close—"

"I am yours," Zevran breathes in her ear, "I am all yours, my love, yours forever," and his fingertips rub perfect rough circles over her clit, and she feels herself pulse and throb around him.

She's still pulsing as Zevran drives hard into her a few more time and releases hot inside her with a cry loud enough to rattle the stone walls.

Zevran's arms wrap around her, drawing her against his chest as he sits back, still panting. Ilana sinks against him, shaking out her cramped arm and reaching up to caress his face tucked over her shoulder.

They sit there wrapped holding each other for a moment, breathing raggedly, Zevran's cock starting to slip out of her her as he softens.

"Beautiful," Zevran murmurs, nuzzling her check.

"So good," Ilana breathes in turn. "Sleep now?"

"As you wish."

Zevran swipes a damp towel from the floor, and they clean up well enough for comfort before tossing it aside again. The bed is warm, and if not dressed so finely as those of the Arl's estate, still feels like luxury. She settles on her side, and Zevran tucks himself against her back, folding his arms around her.

"Going to need another bath in the morning," Ilana murmurs sleepily.

Zevran laughs softly. "That can be arranged, my sweet."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
